


Colors of a Language

by Nagiru



Category: Original Work
Genre: Best Friends (some Bromance?), Blind Character, Colors, Gen, Some humour, stupidity and ridiculousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-18
Updated: 2017-09-18
Packaged: 2018-12-31 10:21:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12130371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nagiru/pseuds/Nagiru
Summary: Because, sometimes, the best and most true answer is: "I. Do. Not. Care."OR: Leo is blind, won't people ever understand that? That means he doesn't see colors. That means he doesn't CARE about colors, thank you very much.





	Colors of a Language

**Author's Note:**

> This work was first written for a college class. My teacher wanted us to write something "different". I said I was going to write a narrative, and she was happy at the chance to read something "creative" for once (she said). I decided to aim high. This came to me soon after she said that, if we managed to mix some of what we saw on our classes it would be best; I thought, "hey, we saw different kinds of reading. I'm going to write about a blind person." I wrote the whole story in a single hour. I was damn happy with it, as well.  
> I am NOT, in no way, an expert of blinds or anything like that. I can't say I've ever spoke to a blind person to ask them about what people usually tell them, or what they think of colors. This was, simply put, my own view, and I just thought it wasn't _too much_ of an insult. If it is, I apologize deeply. It was not my intent to insult anyone. ( _Maybe_ I mocked those who asked for a color from blinds? Well...)  
>  Truth is: I wasn't going to post it. It's an Original Work, to begin with, and I'm not too confident of my Original Works. Besides that, as I said, blind work. Yeah. Insults are easy to make, even unconsciously. I decided to post it recently, because my teacher said she liked it a lot, and that I should either post or find support to publish it somewhere, and I just. Well. Decided to risk it. Why not?  
> Anyway. If anyone decides to read, I hope you enjoy it.
> 
> **DISCLAIMER:** Are disclaimers needed at Original Works?... Well. It does belong to me. Everything. The characters, which barely have a name (Leo and Ian), the story... it's mine. I wrote it for a class, and, pshh, well. It's mine.

**Colors of a Language**

Sometimes, people would describe him colors. It was such a ridiculous concept, that; how to describe a color without using another color? What mattered to him if a color was _warm_ , as some would say, when warm, to him, was simply fire? And then they would agree, _“yes, yes, the color of fire”_. As if he had ever met the _“color of fire”_.

Color of fire. Color of ice. Color of water.

Isn’t it all the same color?

Yet, there was a certain… charm to it. In ridiculous and stupid description, in unnecessary pity — in concepts he never met and would _never meet_ , and, in fact, would _never need_. Yet, there was a certain charm to it. A charm to hearing the warm, sweet inflections of a dear someone’s voice when they spoke of their favorite colors. To hearing their disgust when speaking of a hated color. Of being given examples, as if touching an apple would teach him the color “red”, as if he would be able to absorb it by _touch_. (He ended up eating each and every one of the apples, and when they protested, he would answer mock-innocently, “Why, I thought I could learn the colors if I ate it!”, and they would sputter as he laughed quietly.)

Yet, he never refused. He smiled, tilted his head, and let them take his hands in theirs, letting them show him letters and words of an alphabet he had no need, once again. (They were his friends, after all. They deserved some chance. When they were strangers, sneering and jittering, he would arch an eyebrow, humor them for half a second, eat their offerings and leave, like a righteous god.)

He allowed them, patiently, because, at the end of the day, he would laugh silently, laying on his bed, fingers running over books, reading stories way over the imagination of colors. He allowed them, because people were stupid and annoying, and sometimes they did not deserve chances, but they always brought him some fun, even if they did not know it was at their expense.

He knew people — people like him — that would get angry. That would get angry, raise their voices at being taught _colors_. As if we needed colors to be happy. Of course, he understood their reactions, even if he did not share them. He knew that anyone could find happiness as they had it, and that there was no _necessity_ for “more” (despite the constant, everyday search for happiness). No one needed to be able to _see_ to achieve happiness. “Normal” people simply thought so because we were too — different from them.

So, yeah, he understood both sides. He did not like any of them, particularly, but he understood them.

To him, however, there was no need to change or argue about things they had never ( _would_ never) experience. Yeah, sure, those who were born with sight but lost it after making memories about _colors_ or whatever, maybe. But to him? To others like him? Born with sightless eyes, forever seeing darkness everywhere around, it mattered not if an apple was red or white, if the sky was blue or pitch black. One of his friends, teasingly, would say, “That, Leo, is because we use that to see if an apple is good or if it is going to rain or not. I know, I know, how _tedious_ of us.” (Yes. He had laughed at that. No one could blame him).

But people never understood that he had lived two decades already, born and raised not seeing a thing, and he _knew_ things. He knew how to determinate if an apple was good to eat or not, simply by touching it, by smelling it. He knew if it was going to rain by the smell of water, by the pressure on the air, by the rolling sounds of thunder. He could _feel_ the sun kissing his skin, the wind on his hair, and the drops of water pouring over him. He understood the world, but, better yet, he understood _his_ world.

It was at times like these that he understood the anger, the indignation. He, as well, wanted to scream, _“We are not invalids! We live and we live well on our own. Stop taking us for idiots!”_

But he never did. He never raised his voice, because his mother had sight, and she had taught him, when he was still a young child who cried because of the mean words of his classmates, that _others do not matter_. She would embrace him, warm and alive, and tell him, _“People don’t understand what is different, dear, so they fear it. They worry, because you’re **special**. They worry because your happiness is different from theirs, and they do not get that.”_ And, with firm hands over his, her voice sweet and caring, with soft hair falling on his face, and scenting of _homeflowersandfood_ , she added, _“Those who matter will understand you.”_

Humans searched the happiness they could understand, because different was always scary. Humans worried, because some _other_ happiness was beyond their understanding, and just because our happiness was different, people would sometimes think we were _un_ happy. Humans, his mother would say, are _incredibly stupid_ , but they only wish him well.

His mother was long gone, now, but her lessons had never escaped him, just as he never forgot the memory of her scent, of her warmth, of her voice, and she taught him to at least _try_ to understand other people, because not many would do that for him. So he had decided, when he was still young and scared, that he _would try_.

So, yeah, Leo _hated_ to hear about how red was hot and about how apples were red _(“Apples aren’t hot,”_ he’d answered frowning. _“But red is!,”_ they’d argued, and they would keep arguing if he did not give up), and Leo hated to be treated with _pity_. However, Leo also hated to yell and scream and tell others that he’s actually intelligent. He _is_. But, more than that, he won’t bother trying to tell that to people who do not matter, so, if they do not see that for themselves, he would simply ignore them. Simple like that.

And, at the end of the day, when he lied down to read and laugh, there would be someone with him, and _that_ someone was one that mattered. His best friend, laying over his shoulders, hands light over his fingers, asking him about his braille. Ian’s laugh would mix with his, amused, and he would ask him about the newest stupidity, and he would tease others mercilessly. Ian would lay with him, soft and warm, and whisper not to break the silence, short hair tickling Leo’s chin, and Leo would feel — _happy_.

This, here, he knew, was happiness. He never saw his friend, but he never _felt the need to_. He knew how Ian laughed, he knew Ian’s voice, and he knew his scent, so peculiar and unique, and he never felt the need for anything _more_ , and he would bear any pity and stupidity if it ended with happiness.

And, well, the best part?

Ian _understood_. Leo knew that, because Ian would ask him about his letters, his alphabet, and tell him, “Come on, Leo, tell me about it! You always put up with my stupid videos, and hearing me describe the most idiotic pictures in the _world_. So, the least I could do is share a language just with you. Who know? Maybe we could use it to cheat on tests!” (much to Leo’s amusement. Did Ian not know that it was almost _impossible_ to write in braille in a way it was possible to feel it?)

And, well; if he could just lay there, laughing at Ian, reading his books out loud for his best (stupidly _ridiculous_ ) friend, who _cared?_ Who cared about stupid, pitying people who could not understand something as simple as: _I. Do. Not. Care._

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you've enjoyed it.  
> For those who've read: please, do leave a comment? As a Original Work, any critic is very much supported. I welcome any word at all. I just want to know what you've thought about it. Even if you did not enjoy the story, after all.
> 
> Oh, I've been told that it is hard to understand the " _homeflowersandfood_ ". It's actually "home, flowers and food" but all mixed up together, since it's a smell, and they're not, like, individual smells. They're just this one huge smell, to him, that categorizes his mother. So. A single word.


End file.
